


Voyeur

by grandfatherclock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Community: widojest love, F/M, POV Second Person, Self-Hatred, no consent issues—caleb just catches her moaning his name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 19:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20013757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: You didn’t intend to hear her. You were just walking down the hall, listening to your even footfalls and the sounds of your boots clicking against the furnished hardwood panelling of your home. It’s hard to think that word.Home. It makes your facetwist, to think it, to enunciate that word even in the solace of your own mind. It brings up old memories that well up in your throat and tear into your mind like a rusted dagger, makes you remember up a cold winter night when Astrid was watching and Eodwulf was grinning and the snow was falling, and thehome was burning, burning, burning—





	Voyeur

**Author's Note:**

> As mentioned in the tags, there are no consent issues—Caleb just catches Jester moaning his name.

You didn’t intend to hear her. You were just walking down the hall, listening to your even footfalls and the sounds of your boots clicking against the furnished hardwood panelling of your home. It’s hard to think that word. _Home_. It makes your face _twist_ to think it, to enunciate that word even in the solace of your own mind. It brings up old memories that well up deep in your throat and tear into your mind like a rusted dagger, makes you remember up a cold winter night when Astrid was watching and Eodwulf was grinning and the snow was falling, and the _home was burning, burning, burning_ —

But it wasn’t the way the wood blackened into the orange-yellow- _red_ of the ripping flames that you were thinking about when you first heard her. You were thinking about that damned _Teleportation Circle_ spell, and thinking about Yussah Errenis, with his waving white hair and his smooth dark skin and his brittle smile. You were thinking about being alone in that _room_ while he circled you, talked to you about all your fucking promise. You arms are crossed, and you’re itching slightly, you can feel the weight of your fingers insistent against your bare pale arms, having folded up the sleeves of your white shirt, and you can _see_ those calloused, blackened fingertips digging into the scarred flesh, too gentle to leave any real marks but _disappointing_ regardless. You’re disappointed. You’re disappointed you’re this way, you’re disappointed in how you froze up in front of that archmage and you’re disappointed how much _it’s still affecting you_. The thought of using the _Teleportation Circle_ spell to see that _man_ again obsesses your sick mind which can’t let a single thread of worry go, even if it unravels this entire tapestry you’ve built with the Mighty Nein— _home_ , you think wildly, itching, itching, _itching_ , _home, itching for home_ —because you _have_ to go back, to visit Jester’s mother.

There’s _another_ thread of worry, and it makes your teeth grit together, makes your jaw clench. You imagine Marion picking up a porcelain cup and taking a sip, her throat working to swallow when the porcelain _cracks_ , her lovely red fingers having dropped it against the tiled panelling of the Lavish Chateau. You imagine the blood dripping out her widened eyes, out her _nose_ , out her _mouth_ and her _ears_ , this coarser colour against her smooth skin, her shoulders slumping like Astrid’s parents leaning back in their chairs, their movements becoming sluggish. Astrid’s hands wouldn’t tremble as she cleaned up anymore, she would have too much practice. Her shoulders wouldn’t tense as Marion gasped.

You imagine a blade run through her, the kind Eodwulf likes to play with. He’s good with daggers, he was the one who helped you when your name wasn’t _Caleb_ , when it was _Bren_. He helped you become proficient enough with blades when the teachers cursed how you stumbled and trembled and _failed_. You recall the weight of his hand—cooler than your own heated skin, they always tend to be—on yours gripping the hilt of the dagger, his lips against the shell of your ear. _Someone should remain the prodigy, Schatz_. You felt him grin against your skin. _Someone should, ja?_

_This_ is what you were thinking when you heard her gasp your name.

You still in front of the door to her and Beau’s room, and wonder for a moment if you were imagining this, if this is some strange psychosexual manifestation of all your worries and desires imprinted onto one _leetel bloo tiefling._ That thought almost immediately makes you scoff to yourself and you wince, feeling your teeth grit against each other again. _You piece of shit_ , you think to yourself in your Zemnian tongue, basking in _brittle_ you sound, indulging in how much _worse_ your cracked and dry voice is in Zemnian, when it isn’t made soft by your hesitance and filler words in Common. _You fucking piece of shit, she doesn’t deserve you using her in your fantasies_ —

“ _Cayleb_ ,” you hear again, your name moaned through her accented voice and her undoubtedly parted lips, and you _stare_ at the door. You didn’t imagine this. She is in there, touching herself, imagining _you_. Imagining some fantasy version of you, more accurately—you doubt the man she’s imagining fucking into her endangered her mother by virtue of being your fucking self, and you doubt the man whose lips she’s imagining pressing against hers is sick like you are, obsessed like you are, thinking about elves in towers when _there is so much at stake in the Dynasty, you could finally learn about dunamancy, stay on task, Widogast_ —but she’s _touching_ herself, and gasping _your_ name.

You can’t do this, you _can’t_ —you _know_ you can’t—but your traitorous hand with the blackened fingertips and the callouses from another life, a better life, a life of hard agrarian labour, in all its wretched glory, knocks against her door. There’s a silence, and you wonder why the _fuck_ you’re here, why the _fuck_ you’re like this, why you’re inviting yourself into this fantasy she’s indulging in, why you’re here to _ruin_ it. You should leave, you should ignore this, she can pretend it was a prank or something— _or she’ll put her own keen mind into investigating the case of the knocking voyeur_ , you think, your lips curving up despite yourself, despite this situation—but _Scheisse_ , you really do need to extricate yourself from all this before—

“Is it _youuuu_ , Cayleb?” she sings. Her breath is uneven around those words, and you can _imagine_ her chest rising and falling, her toned freckled arm reaching _down_ , reaching under her pretty dress and running through her folds, her lower lip caught between her teeth, caught between her _fangs_. You still haven’t heard footfalls, and you imagine her sitting in the same position, her pointed ears perked up as she listens for you, listens for your words and your sighs and the wooden floorboards _creaking_ as you shift your weight from foot to foot, considering, worrying, _thinking_. “You can come _innnn_.”

You shouldn’t. You should apologize for listening, apologize for endangering the people that matter to her, apologize for the minute hesitations your stricken mind feels at the thought of returning to Nicodranas, apologize for _existing_ and being _here_ , apologize for imagining her beautiful visage flushed and wanton, your name stumbling out from her lips, apologize for thinking of her _in this way_ —but you _don’t_. You find your hand against the doorknob, pushing it open, and you feel yourself wince slightly at the creak the door makes as you walk through the threshold. Her threshold. You’re walking into her threshold and as you close the door carefully behind yourself you feel _panic_ , you feel _wrong_ , you feel _sick_. You turn to her, the words _sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry, Lavorre_ on your lips, when—

You were _right_. Her yellow dress is bunched up on her waist, exposing her firm freckled thighs to the room. The windows are curtained, but sunlight still streams through the light material, shading the room along with the muted arcane lights in this hazy hue, this warm colouration. It does wonders for her freckled skin that seems so _warm_ in this light, and you see her throw her head back and gasp as the hand hidden where you can’t see, hidden under her dress between her parted legs, _moves_ , the shift in the wrist making it plenty clear to you she’s working herself open. She winks when your gazes meet, and you watch her hair all messy against her pillow, framing her lovely face as she flushes, her skin darker along her neck and cheeks. “ _Heyyyy_ ,” she sighs.

You smile, of course you smile. She makes you smile. She doesn’t have to, you’ve tried to remind her, but right now doesn’t seem like the right time to bring up all the ways your lives are crushing, all the little dangers creeping around the corners and edges of your lives— _Astrid, Eodwulf_ , you think, your thoughts tinged with desperation, _the man in Rexxentrum, Yussah Errenis_ —all the ways your presence _ruined_ her. Or maybe right now is the _exact_ right time to—

Jester moans again, smiling and beckoning you close with her free hand, the movement not sexy or elegant in the _least_ , almost _flailing_ for you, and you walk to her, your footfalls decidedly _not_ even. You exhale through your teeth and run a hand through your hair, feeling it dishevel in your ruined fingers, and you _hate_ how you jut your chin out, exposing your neck almost imperceptibly enough that you could deny it you had to— _why would you have to deny it, you fuck_ , you think, _this is Jester_ , and _still_ your troubled mind _races_ —and you _hate_ how you’re preening just slightly under her half-lidded gaze. You hate how you’re _walking_ , hate how you’re allowing the sight of her to make your feet move in that _way_ —and _fuck_ , you hate how you’re being _seduced_ , and how you don’t hate it at all. “Hi,” she whispers when you look at her, and you give her a little half-smile, feeling lost and _wrong_ and selfish. “Colour?”

You reach for her hand, and try not to blink at the sight of her freckled hand in your ruined one, at the visage of your blackened fingertips against her blue skin. _You don’t deserve this_ , you think, and you bring your intertwined hands close, pressing your lips against her knuckles. She sighs, her eyes fluttering shut, still touching herself, and you can _see_ her fingers in this angle, clever and pressing into her in patterned movements. She flushes when she sees you look _there_ , flushes as you watch her shift with those fingers inside her, and you pull a loose strand of her hair behind her hair absentmindedly with your other hand almost reverently. She leans her head to her touch, _whining_ with a groan as you begin to pull away. You still, hand against her face, and she opens one eye, raising an eyebrow. You exhale, shaking your head and sitting beside her, running a ruined thumb across her cheek. “Are you _sure_ you want me here?” you ask. _Make me leave,_ you beg in your head, hoping and not-hoping and not-not-hoping that she sees your wretchedness on your face. _Send me away, Lavorre, I’m not good enough to leave on my own._

“Of _course_ ,” Jester sighs, her Nicodrani accent already lilting but downright _dragging_ with her heavy breath, her body writhing slightly as she gives you a sidelong smile. “You’re always welcome in my _bedddd_ , Cayleb.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and you—you fucking _hate_ yourself for this—you lean forward and capture her lips with your own as your blackened thumb runs along her arm, down her arched fingers, down, down, _down_ until you feel her clit. She _moans_ into your mouth as you kiss her fervently, your teeth and tongues against each other, desperate and clacking, and you pull away, feeling her hand running through your hair, feeling her body _jerk_ as you run light circles around her clit, waiting for her to open her eyes again. “Green,” you say quietly.

Jester _grins_ , her teeth and fangs exposed from how wide her lips are stretched. She raises her other arm to run her hand through your hair, and for a brief moment before she pulls you back in you see your reflection in her violet eyes, your own lips parted and your face flushed and your hair mussed in that _way_ , and _gottverdammt,_ you’re still so _fucking_ good at this. It’s _obscene_ , and she’s kissing you _again_ , directing you with her hand gripping at your hair, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt and hard enough that you _enjoy_ it.

Your thumb stilled, so you begin to move it, and she _arches_ slightly, moaning your name as you begin to kiss along her sharp jawline, begin to leave bruises with your lips against her cool skin. _You’re so good,_ she says, her own hand pulling out from her and reaching for you, a finger trailing her slick against your cheek until it reaches your mouth. You open it for her and taste her in your mouth, feel her digit as a weight on your tongue as you trace a finger around her entrance and listen to her moan, listen to her whimper. Another finger enters your mouth and you suck, your eyes half-lidded and your tongue running against them. 

Jester pulls her fingers away far too soon— _eager_ , you think fondly, _you’re so eager_ —and she reaches unbutton your shirt, the first few buttons already open to expose your sternum, but you shake your head, your rough finger reaching into her and _curling_ as she begins to furrow her eyebrows. Jester _moans_ and braces her hand that isn’t already in your hair on your other arm, her entire body _shaking_ with the languid movement of the finger in her. “More,” she demands, and then she looks to you almost _worried_. “And let me undress you, Cayleb.” Her voice gets lower, trying for seductive, her eyelashes fluttering in a way that is only half-joking, and you sigh, gritting your teeth together as you think of a way to _explain_ to her the circus that is your mind. “… Colour?” she whispers, and your gaze _snaps_ to her. “I’m only green if you are, you know?”

She… she cares so _much_ , and you deserve her company so _little_. You don’t deserve her offering to undress you, you don’t deserve her eyeing you in this way—you deserve to be kicked _out_ , you deserve to be banished, you deserve to be locked up in an asylum with white rooms where your arms are restrained and your squirming thoughts can’t hurt anybody. It breaks your brittle heart to see her forehead creased for you, and you give her a weak smile. She always makes you _smile_ , and she _doesn’t have to, Jester, you don’t, I promise_. “Green,” you assure her. “Just… not that kind of day. I don’t want to be undressed.” You feel yourself flush slightly with embarrassment.

Jester stares, and for a moment you worry she’s going to _push_ , going to make you pull off your shirt and look at your scars, make you _see your entire wretched self indulging in her light_ , but then she just leans back against her pillow, smiling at you easily. “Okay,” she sighs, and your shoulders slump with relief. “But I _am_ ”—her breath catches as you push another finger into her, your thumb still curving around her clit, and she hisses, her voice tinged with pleasure, _Ah, ah, ah_ —“making this up to you _later_ , when you’re in the mood, though.”

_Oh, Jester_ , you think, at an utter loss at her grace. You don’t deserve this, you don’t deserve _her_ , you _don’t,_ but you shift anyway, getting up to brace your knees on her bed, your fingers still in her as you move. Jester watches you with her dark eyes, and you know how your body moves differently under her gaze, how you _wink_ when she meets your eyes. You don’t want to think about how this is all so _familiar_ , like a glove you’re slipping in after a long good while, and you pull a leg over your shoulder, as you think, and think, and _think_ —

You’re so fucking tired of thinking.

She _gasps_ as you replace your thumb with your tongue, your fingers curling against her as you press your lips against her clit, smiling as you _suck_. Her hand reaches back for your hair, gripping tighter this time, but she doesn’t push you, content to let you go at your own pace. You think you could work her longer, but it… it isn’t that kind of day. Regardless, you’re kind of an asshole at heart, a tease of the worst variety, so you raise your other hand resting against her thigh, parting her legs open wider, and she _groans_ with disappointment as you pull away, leaving light marks against her thigh. “Cayleb,” she says, pouting and bracing herself on her forearm to gaze at you, and you _grin_. The sight of her with her dress rumpled, her messy hair framing her face all hazy with pleasure, is nearly too much, and so is her lower lip jutting out as she begs you with her dark eyes. “Please?” she sighs. You smile at her, the light from the arcane lights making her skin glow, the sight of her with her knees pulled apart making you feel all fond and broken inside, and she smiles back at you. “I’ve been thinking about you a _lot_ ,” she confesses.

“… I’ve been thinking about you too,” you say, after a moment. Your thoughts probably haven’t… been as nice as hers have been, but the strange look on her face makes you unsure. You sigh, and lower your head to kiss her right on top of her folds. “I’ve been worried about you.” Jester raises her eyebrows in that way you can imagine her saying, _What, meee?_ , and you stretch those fingers still inside her, watching her _arch_. She whimpers your name, and you pull out your fingers. She groans, _glaring_ at you, and you give her a playful smile before you tilt your head down and _run_ your tongue against her, against her entrance. You feel her clench slightly, her grip on your hair tightening, and you indulge her, your thumb coming in to run circles around her clit again.

Jester is _moaning,_ the leg on your shoulder bracing against you, and you rub her clit more insistently, sighing against her as you work her open, feeling the taste of her slick on your tongue—as enjoyable as her fingers were in your mouth, they were _nothing_ compared to _this_ , compared to _her_ —as you go _deeper_ , as deep as you’re able. You feel her tensing, feel her _arching,_ and your tongue _curls_ just so, just enough, and her back _braces_ she comes, words like _please_ and _good_ and _Cayleb_ stumbling out from her parted lips, her hand momentarily _tight_ on your hair before she slumps, all laid out and her eyes shut as she breathes unevenly, this little smile playing on her lips. “Okay, Schatz?” you say, your voice rough as you wipe your face with the back of your hand.

Jester opens her eyes and smiles at you. “ _So good_ ,” she sighs. “You’re so _good_ , Cayleb.” You still at that, wondering what in your stance made this _screaming_ need for praise so fucking evident, but she winks, and you realize, your heart sinking, it’s just her. It’s just her and it’s just you, and she sees it, she sees it all—and she still wants you. Even with all your faults, even though who you are endangered her mother, even though you are _made_ of squirming faults and anxiety and good intentions that spill out into harmful consequences, _she still wants you._ You get up to leave, your mind _spinning_ , and she _pouts_ , reaching out and grabbing your hand. You raise an eyebrow at her, thinking _make me leave, make me leave, I can hardly make me leave_ , and she pulls you close, grinning as you stumble into her bed. “Cuddle with _me_ ,” she orders, wrapping her arms around you. After a moment, feeling that _tension_ in your shoulders, in your arms, she whispers, “Green?”

_Green?_ you think, all dazed. _I’m not good enough to reject this, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not_ —and _oh_ , you feel her hand in yours, running little circles against your palm with her cool thumb. “Green,” you whisper, your voice cracking through the momentary silence as she peers at you, and the way her face breaks into a huge smile and her eyes get all shiny makes you hate yourself a little less, or maybe just a little more. It’s hard to tell, but you lean into her, your own arm raising to wrap around her waist. Your chest is tight, and you can't determine if this is _helping_ , but the two of you indulge in each other, indulge in the silence. After a while she whispers, her head against your shoulder—the two of you have shuffled and adjusted to make room in her little bed—and her voice slightly more composed, slightly less obscenely rough, “I like you _lots_ , Cayleb.”

“I like you too,” you whisper, hating your traitorous voice, hating how it hitches, hating how your arms tighten around her. She sighs, her head leaning back down against you, and you lower your own head to her pillow, staring at the smooth ceiling. You aren’t good enough to reject this, reject the sounds coming out from her room as she moans your name, and she’s almost made you think you don’t have to be, that anything about this wretchedness is _acceptable_. Already you can feel those threads that Jester’s Nicodrani accent stumbling over your name, her hand running through your hair, the weight of her fingers on her tongue, silenced for just those _desperate_ half-seconds coming right back. You can feel yourself _thinking_ , and you close your eyes, trying to starve them off, starve this _creature_ under your skin that snuck its way into her life and into her bed _off_. 

She hugs you, and you try to live with yourself through it.


End file.
